


Slut Shaming

by AnglophilicSins



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slut Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 22:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnglophilicSins/pseuds/AnglophilicSins
Summary: She keeps going back, reassuring herself with the fact that she's at least unmarried.'Slut.'Besides, the sex is good.





	Slut Shaming

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years and years ago?? Decided to clean it up and post it. Please take the tags seriously, don't read stuff that might trigger you.

New town, new life.

She does not want for money; her late husband had left her more than enough for both her and the child. The sale of the house besides had set them both up for a life of prosperity.

It was morality, perhaps, that drove her to move into a small, quaint apartment. Morality that drove her to seek employment in the little town.

'He will not grow to take for granted the value of toil,' she said of her son.

It was a textile factory, of a sort.

'Women within the ages of 18-30, apply within,' was written upon the wall.

He was a well-groomed man, neat stubble with a pristine button-down. Polished shoes, firm handshake, bright smile.

Morality, perhaps, that drove her to think no ill of him.

There was a needle. Then black.

***

Perhaps of some importance would be an introduction to the situation of the town.

Fifteen young women, aged eighteen to thirty, had disappeared over the past few years, taken on the day they'd gone to seek employment.

It's a plain miracle that no one has managed to put the pieces together.

***

She wakes to a pleasant rocking motion. Her vision is a blur of soft cream blooms, her breath is steady in sleep.

It feels good, very good. Better than she's felt in a long time.

'How nice,' she thinks.

Her head lolls slowly to the left, an intravenous drip swims into view, steadily pumping her body with poison.

'Oh,' she thinks, slowly, calmly, 'if only I were not drugged, it would feel even better.'

She struggles vaguely, the rocking continues.

The drip falls out. Sensation returns. As does reason.

'It's even better,' a part of her contentedly hums, hips canting upwards.

'I've been drugged,' another part cries in horror, 'I'm being raped!'

'So?' The contented voice again, 'what does it matter if it feels good?'

Her vision wobbles into clarity, the man above comes into view.

Her head falls to the right, fifteen cold beds are occupied.

'Rape,' Sense insists, 'rape!'

She kicks. Hard.

The man falls with a startled cry; she rolls off the bed with a thump and struggles away.

***

The next morning she is sore and everything aches. She dresses a little looser.

'Slut,' a voice in the street; faceless, nameless.

She frowns. Coils the shame of the word around her and tugs her collar closer.

She is though, isn't she?

After all, she's going back.

***

The affable man is there again. Polished shoes, firm handshake.

'You start work today.'

It was a textile factory, of a sort.

***

Night.

She clears her work station, straightens her clothes.

He waves.

She goes.

'Slut,' he hisses into her ear.

She can't disagree.

***

She keeps going back, reassuring herself with the fact that she's at least unmarried.

'Slut.'

Besides, the sex is good.

***

She often wonders about the women there. Wrapped away, frozen into stasis. Fifteen that never became sixteen.

'They've never managed to break free of the drugs,' he proclaims, catching her stare, 'I fucked them dead.'

She hums mildly in acknowledgement.

'Slut,' he says. As usual.

This time though, 'You're the one who's had sixteen sex partners. I've only had my late husband and you.'

***

The next month, he neglects to hand her her cheque.

At night, the ever-affable man apologises, 'I'll pay you your dues tomorrow.'

'Oh it's alright,' she speaks between gasps, 'you can keep the money.'

There's silence for the longest time, the still air disturbed only by soft pants.

'Slut,' he whispers, she wonders if he can even hear his own voice.

***

'Good evening,' she greets him amicably, casually shrugging out of her blouse.

'…good evening.'

His face is pinched in concentration, he looks like he's trying so hard, she almost laughs.

He spends himself with a cry, lifting himself with shaking arms and lying away from her. A few clinks sound beside his ear, and he blearily cracks open a single eye.

Three bright coins glint by his head.

'That was really good,' she remarks with a satisfied sigh, 'you've earned that. See you tomorrow.'

***

She doesn't 'see him tomorrow'.

She's dismissed from her job without much of an explanation, her colleagues kindly hold her a farewell party.

She was never really close to any of them, so she supposes it's not much of a loss. She'll just find a new town, a new job, a new life.

In the news, the headlines blare: Sixteenth Victim to Town's Mysterious Kidnapper.

She chucks the local herald into the trash, taking her son's hand in hers, their luggages in the other, and leads him away.

Softly, careful not to let young ears hear, she laughs.

'Slut.'

 


End file.
